


Don't Think Twice, It's All Right

by king_finn



Series: What A Wonderful World [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Panic Attacks, Serious Injuries, Stitches, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26864725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: “Geralt?” He throws his dagger to the side haphazardly, hurrying to his Witcher, who’s breaking through the treeline at last. Geralt nearly collapses on the ground, but Jaskier manages to catch him, worry coiling in his gut at the sight of Geralt – face pale and gaunt, eyes wide and slightly panicked, one hand clutching his side, blood dripping over his skin, as his legs buckle underneath him with every step.“Good gods, Geralt,” Jaskier mutters, as he half-carries, half-drags Geralt to the campfire, lowering him down in the dirt rather quickly and ungracefully. “What happened to you?”“Werewolf.”Geralt comes back from a hunt with a claw still embedded in one of his wounds.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What A Wonderful World [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951405
Comments: 13
Kudos: 244
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Don't Think Twice, It's All Right

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6 of Whumptober! Today's prompt is: "Get it out."
> 
> Title from Don't Think Twice, It's All Right by Bob Dylan.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

He looks up when he hears stumbling footsteps approaching the camp. He reaches for the knife in his boot in reflex, setting his lute to the side gently as his eyes dart over the treeline, trying to see anything in the darkness that surrounds the clearing.

A branch snaps to his right, and he whips his head around, slowly drawing the dagger, clutching it in a slightly trembling hand. “Who’s there?”

More footsteps, and his heart is pounding in his throat, now, breath coming in and out of his lungs in shallow gasps, sweat gathering on the back of his neck. Something heavy falls, and he startles, before he hears a soft “ _fuck”._

“Geralt?” He throws his dagger to the side haphazardly, hurrying to his Witcher, who’s breaking through the treeline at last. Geralt nearly collapses on the ground, but Jaskier manages to catch him, worry coiling in his gut at the sight of Geralt – face pale and gaunt, eyes wide and slightly panicked, one hand clutching his side, blood dripping over his skin, as his legs buckle underneath him with every step.

“Good gods, Geralt,” Jaskier mutters, as he half-carries, half-drags Geralt to the campfire, lowering him down in the dirt rather quickly and ungracefully. “What happened to you?”

“Werewolf.”

“Right, yes, of course,” Jaskier mumbles, turning Geralt on his back and starts fumbling with the straps of his armour. “You’re going to have to give a bit more detail than that, though. Where are you hurt?”

Geralt groans as he lifts his arms up, allowing Jaskier to take the breastplate off, along with his torn and bloodied shirt. “Side, mostly.”

Jaskier nearly squeaks at the sight of Geralt’s side, covered in deep scratches, blood continuously dripping from the wounds, skin and flesh mangled, the lower edge of his ribcage visible, as well as the upper edge of his hipbone. “Fuck, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees. “My potions bag,” he mutters.

Jaskier blinks, then stumbles upright, nearly tripping over his own feet as he makes his way over to their packs, rummaging through them until he finds a familiar leather satchel that Geralt told him to never, ever touch. He hurries back to Geralt’s side, opening the satchel, shifting through the flasks, the clattering of glass mixing with the sound of the campfire snapping and Geralt’s laboured breathing for a few seconds.

“Which one do you need?” he asks frantically, heart beating in his throat as more and more blood seeps into the dark earth.

“Kiss,” Geralt mutters. “I need Kiss.”

Jaskier stills, eyes wide, heart still beating impossibly loud, though now for a different reason. “Geralt, while I really appreciate you asking, and while I would gladly indulge you right now, I _can’t._ You’re dying- you’re _bleeding out_ as we speak!”

Geralt closes his eyes and sighs. “I need the _potion_ Kiss. It’s light blue, in a round vial. Should be labelled, as well. Stops the bleeding.”

He blinks, before turning back to the potions bag, cheeks burning. “Oh, alright, of course. Makes sense,” he mutters under his breath. He finds it soon enough, and hands it to Geralt, who uncorks it with his teeth, before downing it in one, long sip. Then, the Witcher lays his head back on the dirt, closing his eyes.

“Need your help, Jask.”

He blinks, but nods eagerly, settling down on his knees next to Geralt. “Yes, of course, anything.”

Geralt weakly gestures to his side, and Jaskier notices the bleeding has slowed down to a soft trickle. “Still a claw in there. Gotta get it out.”

He blanches, feeling the blood drain from his face. “Right, yeah, of course. Good luck with that.”

Geralt opens his eyes, locking gazes with him, and dread settles in Jaskier’s gut. He already knows what Geralt’s going to ask of him. Doesn’t mean he’s going to like it. “You have to get it out for me, Jask.”

“Can’t… can’t we just leave it there? Until we find a healer, that is. I mean- Geralt, I’m hardly qualified to bandage your wounds, let alone rummage around in them to get a _claw_ out, and- and- why can’t you do it yourself? I mean, I’m sure you’ve done this plenty of times before, and I- I have _never_ done _anything_ like that-“

Geralt’s hand slowly reaches out to cup his cheek, smearing blood all over his skin and cutting his rant short. “Jaskier, look at me.” He obliges, though his breathing is still going fast, heartbeat pounding in his throat. Geralt looks a lot more collected and calm, even though he’s the one that’s injured, and shame makes heat rise to Jaskier’s cheeks.

“Jaskier, we have to get this out as soon as possible, or it will infect, the wound will fester. I know you’re scared of hurting me-“ _godsdammit, when did Geralt get so good at reading him?_ “-but it will hurt more if you leave it in me.”

“But…” He swallows thickly, hand trembling as it comes up to softly grasp Geralt’s wrist. “Can’t you do it yourself? Please, you can’t ask me to do this- _please don’t ask me to do this.”_

“I’m sorry, Jask, but it’s better if you do it. It’s near my back, and I won’t be able to see the claw, but you will. You just have to pull the edges of the wound open a bit, reach in, and pull the claw out.”

He sobs quietly, eyes flitting between Geralt’s calm face and the open wound in his side. “Please, I don’t want to do this,” he whispers.

“I know, Jask. Do you trust me?”

He nods, tears gathering on his eyelashes, threatening to spill over his cheeks. “More than anything,” he whispers.

“Then trust me that everything’s going to be fine.”

Jaskier nods hesitantly, and Geralt pulls his hand back, face straining as he rolls himself over on his uninjured side. He gestures with his hand to the upper side of the wound.

“It should be somewhere in there,” he says. Jaskier nods, moves so his knees are against Geralt’s stomach, hesitant hands hovering over his side. “Just pull the edges apart, you should see it.”

He does as he’s told, though he’s trembling as he does so. He cringes at the wet squelch of the wound under his fingers when he pulls it open, swallows to keep the bile from rising in his throat. “Oh, gods,” he mutters, voice shaking.

“You’re doing fine,” Geralt says, though his voice sounds a bit more clipped than before. Jaskier knows exactly what Geralt sounds like when he’s in pain, and he knows that he’s hurting his friend, now. “Keep going.”

He nods shakily, straining a bit with the effort of pulling the wound further apart. “Geralt,” he says, panic slowly rising in him. “I can’t- I can’t see anything.” He gasps, when he notices something white and pointed embedded in the muscles of Geralt’s back. “Wait! I see it!”

“Good,” Geralt breathes, and Jaskier looks up to see amber eyes trained on him. “Now reach in and get it out.”

He nods again, bracing himself when he pushes the fingers of his right hand into the wound, the other keeping it open, still. Blood engulfs his fingers, and he nearly loses sight of the claw because of it. Then, Geralt groans in pain, eyes closed, jaw clenched, and Jaskier starts pulling his hand out, a hundred apologies lying in wait on his tongue.

“No!” Geralt spits out through his clenched teeth. “Keep going. Just get it out.”

Jaskier can’t help the sob that escapes his lips when he pushes his fingers in further, a sickening warmth surrounding his hand, or the tears that start spilling down his cheeks when Geralt groans in pain again.

“Geralt, I’m so sorry,” he hiccups, as his fingers bump into the claw, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he chokes out between sobs again and again, his fingers closing around the claw, his hand retracting slowly, trying to make sure he doesn’t rip anything apart with the sharp object. “ _I’m so sorry.”_

Suddenly, the claw is in his bloodied hand. It’s so small, for something that’s causing both of them so much pain, and he throws it to the side, burying his face in his hands as he sobs, smearing blood all over his skin.

After a few moments, he feels Geralt’s hand on his arm, and he looks up into amber eyes. “You did so well, Jask, you did everything perfectly. You did so well,” Geralt whispers to him, hand coming up to rub soothing circles into the side of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier leans forward and to the side, until his forehead bumps into Geralt’s, their breath intertwining between them as he hiccups, tears still spilling down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Geralt.”

“Don’t be, Jask. You were perfect. But…” Geralt suddenly looks away, something like guilt flashing across his face. “I’ve still got one favour to ask of you.”

Jaskier pulls back, panic slowly rising again as he looks at Geralt, then at the wound. “It needs stitches, doesn’t it?”

Geralt nods slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier frowns, shakes his head, and reaches for his bag, pulling out the small first aid kit from one of the side pockets, hands fumbling to pick up the needle with his bloodied and blunt nails. “Don’t be. I’ve done this plenty of times before.” He shrugs. “I can do it,” he mutters, more to himself than to Geralt. “I can do it.”

It’s only when Geralt wipes his thumb over Jaskier cheek, that he realizes he’s still crying, the tears that fall into his lap crimson from the blood he smeared all over his face.

“Oh. That’s odd.” He wipes at his eyes furiously, trying to make the tears stop, but they don’t go away, just keep falling in fat drops down his cheeks. He shrugs again, and sets to work stitching up Geralt’s wounds.

It’s quiet in the forest, the only sounds the occasional scuffle of an animal through the leaves, the crackling of the fire, and his own breathing as his trembling hands thread the needle through Geralt’s skin again and again. He’s halfway done when one of his tears – still running down his cheeks, for some reason – falls onto a newly made stitch.

He curses, gently dabbing it away with his sleeve, before he furiously wipes at his eyes again. “Fuck. Why am I still crying? It doesn’t make sense.” He laughs mirthlessly, feeling shame rise hot to his wet and bloodied cheeks. “I’m sorry. I know I should stop, and I’m really trying, but it just won’t go away, and- dear gods, look at me, being such a little baby over here. I’m not even the one hurt, for sweet Melitele’s sake, and yet I can’t stop crying. I’m so sorry-“

Geralt’s hand on his shoulder stops his rant short, and he looks at his Witcher, meets earnest and gentle amber eyes. “Don’t be,” Geralt says softly. “It’s okay to cry, you’re allowed to be upset-“

“But I’m not upset!” Jaskier says, once again wiping more fresh tears away and _where the fuck do they keep coming from?_

“Alright,” Geralt mutters soothingly, a voice Jaskier’s heard him use whenever Roach gets startled or scared by something. “It’s still okay to cry. You’re doing so well, Jaskier, everything’s going to be alright.”

He nods shakily, as he picks the needle up again, quickly finishing up the last stitches, before cutting the thread off with the knife he discarded earlier. When he’s done, Geralt sits up straight and helps him bandage the wounds, movements gentle and slow, as if Jaskier’s some wild animal that’s going to lash out at any moment. Though, he supposes that’s not far off from reality, when an owl flies by at the edge of the clearing, and he nearly screams in fear.

And when everything’s done, when the wounds have been cleaned and sutured and bandaged, Geralt gathers him into his arms and pulls him onto his lap. Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, but quickly closes it again when he hears Geralt’s slow heartbeat against his ear, when Geralt starts rocking back and forth gently, one hand holding him tightly, the other playing with the small hairs at his nape.

“Geralt,” he manages to choke out, though he has no idea where his sentence is going.

Geralt quickly shushes him, pressing his lips against the side of Jaskier’s head, the pressure grounding him. “It’s okay. It’s okay to cry, Jask. It’s okay.”

So he does. He cries for the worry and fear that’d coiled in his stomach the second he saw Geralt stumbling into the clearing. He cries for the cold panic he’d felt when he’d realized what he had to do. He cries for the feeling of his hand delving deeper into Geralt’s muscles, desperate to pull out the offending claw, as he heard his closest friend groan in pain. He cries for the frustration at not being able to _stop_ crying, and he cries for the shame that _he’s_ the one crying, even though he’s not the one hurt.

Meanwhile, Geralt continues rocking him back and forth gently, continues pressing soft kisses to his temple, continues whispering soothing words into his ear. And though he feels terrible, feels the emotions coursing through him, still, he also feels _understood._ Doesn’t feel the same judgement from Geralt as he’d felt from his family every time he’d cry, as a young boy. No ‘ _man up’_ or ‘ _stop being such a baby’_ or _‘royalty shouldn’t cry’._

Just gentle support, and the silent promise that even if everything is not okay now, it will be eventually, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow's prompt is: Nightmares! If you want to be notified when tomorrow's fic goes up, don't hesitate to subscribe to the What a Wonderful World Series!
> 
> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan
> 
> (also also, I read y'alls comments on the last fic, and I totally agree that it needs a sequel, so look forward to that on day 12!)


End file.
